


mr. sandman, bring me a dream

by funvee



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5 Times, Gen, M/M, descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:37:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funvee/pseuds/funvee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times the Musketeers fell asleep on one another.</p>
<p> <br/>Dedicated to the lovely Jansen, who read it and told me about Athos when I asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mr. sandman, bring me a dream

 

 ------------------------

 

It's said that the ultimate form of trust is the ability to sleep soundly next to someone.

 

\------------------------

 

5.

They'd been on horseback since before the sun had crawled over the horizon. They were only stopping now because the youngest of their number was barely staying on top of his horse. d'Artagnan had been leaning at a rather precarious angle for the past few miles and was now leaning at an alarming rate.

"Get him off before he falls," Athos murmured, dismounting from his own horse and leading it off the road.

"You'd think a farmboy like him could stay on his horse all day," Porthos quipped, a grin pulling at his features. Still, he followed Athos, hurrying slightly despite his joking words. Aramis was ahead of both of them, reaching the young recruit first. d'Artagnan remained on the road, seemingly unaware of the others movements around him.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis said, lightly tugging on the boy's pants. "d'Artagnan, we're stopping. You can get off the horse." d'Artagnan merely leaned towards his fellow musketeer, but otherwise didn't move. "You have to help me get you off the horse," Aramis added, tugging again. d'Artagnan mumbled something incoherent but lifted one leg over the horse and let himself fall into the older man's arms. Aramis caught him with an "Oof" of breath, but managed to get an arm around him and hauled him back up onto his feet.

"C'mon, let's get you on the ground, eh?" Aramis murmured as they made their (slow) way to where Athos and Porthos were setting up a small camp. Athos had gotten a very small fire going -- merely twigs -- and Porthos was going around untying bedrolls and taking off saddles. Aramis sat d'Artagnan down next to Athos before turning to take care of his own horse.

"Are you hungry?" Athos asked, nudging d'Artagnan in the side. The boy fell towards him, and let his head roll on his shoulder to face Athos. He shrugged and the movement pushed his whole body closer. "Well, at least eat this, alright?" Athos answered, handing over a small piece of bread. They hadn't stopped to eat earlier -- even if the boy didn't feel hungry, he would regret not eating something later. d'Artagnan obediently brought the bread to his mouth and took a bite, chewing slowly and mechanically.

The others -- Aramis and Porthos -- moved about the camp while Athos sat with d'Artagnan, making sure he didn't fall forwards into the fire or choke on the bread. He watched his friends move, his eyes never leaving the pair as they traipsed about the camp. It was only until they came to join the two of them that Athos let himself fully relax. With Aramis and Porthos on either side of him and d'Artagnan, he slumped against his saddle. They would watch the camp.

"Do you want me to move him?" Aramis asked lightly, taking his hat off and setting it on the ground beside him.

Athos shot him a confused look.

"He's asleep," Aramis replied, raising his eyebrows and nodding towards d'Artagnan. The young man's face was slack and pressed against Athos's shoulder, his entire body slumped around the older man's side. The half-eaten piece of bread was still in his hand.

"Of course, he is." Athos answered, exasperated. His voice was quiet against the crackle of the fire.

"We can move him, if it bothers you," Porthos asked, waiting for an answer before properly settling down against his own saddle.

"It's fine. Leave him," Athos answered, shifting slightly as to not jar d'Artagnan from his spot against him. He removed his own hat and leaned further back. He let out a sort sigh before closing his eyes. "You have first watch," Athos added.

Aramis met Porthos's eyes, and they both grinned.

  
  
  
  
4.

They'd found d'Artagnan slumped against the wall of an alley, bleeding slowly from a wound in his abdomen. His hand was pressed against the wound, blood caked over his hand, dark maroon and crusty. He'd disappeared from the pub about two hours earlier claiming he'd be back within the hour. When he hadn't returned, Porthos had gotten worried. He knew the boy could take care of himself -- he'd been inducted into the garrison after all. But he was young and new and Porthos had a problem worrying about his friends.

Turned out he had been right to worry. d'Artagnan had been waylaid by someone -- there was no evidence in the alley as to who had attacked him (though Porthos had mumbled something about Red Guards) and as he was quite unconscious, he couldn't tell them anything about what had happened.

Aramis didn't care who had done it -- he had been more worried about stopping the bleeding. He'd quickly taken his blue sash off from under his belt and tied it as tightly as he could around the younger man's wound.

They'd carried him home between them in a slow, meandering walk. Once they'd carefully laid him on his bed, Aramis had wasted no time taking d'Artagnan's shirt and jacket off. He'd shouted for Porthos to bring him water and set about cleaning the wound -- which turned out to be deeper than Aramis had first thought. He'd stitched d'Artagnan carefully, fingers dancing with the movement as he pulled the needle through over and over again.

Though he didn't watch, Porthos stood at Aramis's back, a quiet rock to be depended on.

When the stitches were through, Aramis wiped a wet cloth over his work and sat back in the chair he'd commandeered from the kitchen. A low whoosh of breath escaped his lips, and with it all the nerves he'd so carefully pushed away came flooding forward. His hands shook as he repacked his medical bag.

"He's alright, now, right?" He asked, leaning over Aramis and steading his hands by closing his own around them. Aramis closed his eyes at the touch, and then shrugged.

"He should be, but it was a deep wound. And I don't know how much blood he lost. I don't want to leave him alone yet," Aramis admitted, shifting in his chair to look up into Porthos's face. Porthos frowned but squeezed Aramis's hands.

"You did what you could. Just...relax now," he murmured, pulling slightly on Aramis. "Come over here."

Aramis obeyed, rising to his feet and following Porthos as he moved against the wall. As there was nothing to sit on, Porthos slid down the wall and sat on the floor. He looked up at Aramis and grinned before patting the space next to him.

"You don't have to stay, you know. I can watch him," Aramis said, sitting down next to Porthos. He leaned against the wall, tilting his head upwards so he could stare at the ceiling. There were stains on it, dark ugly brown things that Aramis followed with his eyes.

"I do too have to stay. Who's gonna watch you?" Porthos asked, nudging his own shoulder against Aramis's. He grinned down at him, an overly fond expression on his face.

"No one. I'm fine," Aramis murmured, plastering a fake smile across his lips. Porthos rolled his eyes and nudging his shoulder against Aramis again.

"Liar."

"How dare you impugn my honor, sir," Aramis joked, shifting against the wall so he could lean against Porthos. The bigger man adjusted his position without even thinking about it, just simply moved so Aramis would be more comfortable.

"Please," Porthos said, rolling his eyes yet again. He let out a sigh and looked up towards the bed again to peer at d'Artagnan. The young boy was out cold, quietly sleeping with his face pressed against his mattress. He looked relatively peaceful, despite the dried blood on his forehead. Porthos watched as his chest rose and fell, a slow rhythm that proved he was alive.

He turned his head back to Aramis, and found the man asleep. Porthos knew he was upset about what had happened to d'Artagnan -- it was impossible not to be. Aramis would never admit it, though. The worry must have worn down his energy. So Porthos would do what he always did -- he'd quietly be there, the rock that he was for all of his friends.

He adjusted his shoulders and Aramis's head slid down the wall and fell against him. It was a warm, heavy, reassuring weight that he would easily and quite willfully carry. As long as Aramis wanted him to.

  
  
  
  
3.

His arm hurt, his face hurt, his ribs were killing him and his feet felt like they were about ready to fall off his legs. He wouldn't say any of this out loud, though. Not unless someone actively asked him how he felt, and not a single one of his friends would do that without absolutely needing to. They'd let him be and know that if he truly felt awful -- as in, dying awful, he'd say something. Until then, Porthos was going to shut up and deal with what he had going on.

Aramis had already stitched him back together and wrapped him up in bandages -- there was literally no more that could be done. He just had to wait. Wait and heal. Unfortunately for him, that meant he would be out of commission for more than a few days, which meant he'd be left behind while the rest of their little group went out and got themselves into trouble.

Aramis was across from him, hat on the table, staring at Porthos as if he was trying to force him to heal with his mind.

"We've got an assignment," Athos announced as he walked down the stairs from Treville's office. All eyes snapped up to him. He glanced in Porthos's direction before speaking again, "You, however, do not."

Porthos made a face but nodded. He would do more harm than good on any assignment they'd been given. His arm was broken and in a sling, his ribs probably were cracked, and he had more stitches than he'd ever had before.

"I'm to stay behind, I know," Porthos answered, nodding again. He hated being left behind, hating having to stay by himself, worrying about what his friends were getting up to. What if they needed him? What if they needed him and he wasn't able to help?

"Not by yourself," Athos continued, giving him a pointed look. "d'Artagnan is to stay behind with you. Aramis and I are needed by the Queen."

Aramis paled slightly.

"Just the two of you?" d'Artagnan asked, in disbelief. He shot a look towards Aramis. "Really?"

"Treville said she specifically requested us," Athos answered, with a shrug. He moved around the table, stopping by Aramis to hand him his hat. "We're to leave immediately."

Aramis seemed to steel himself against something before standing. He turned to face d'Artagnan, pointing a long finger at him and then at Porthos. "Don't let him exert himself. He's not to do anything unless absolutely necessary, understand?"

"I'm right here!" Porthos exclaimed.

"Yes, you are, and you'll completely ignore me the minute I'm gone," Aramis continued, as if he'd never stopped speaking. He stared at d'Artagnan. "Understood?"

d'Artagnan blinked at Aramis, but nodded.

"Good," Aramis murmured with a smile, placing his hat upon his head and moving to stand next to Athos.

"We'll be back as soon as we're able," Athos said, glancing at Porthos and d'Artagnan in turn before heading towards the stables. Aramis gave d'Artagnan another pointed look before following after Athos.

Once the two of them were gone, d'Artagnan turned to Porthos. "Does he always treat you like that when you're hurt?"

"It's how he shows he's worried," Porthos answered, with a shrug. "I don't mind. Mostly 'cause I deserve it. I do ignore him."

"At least you admit it."

Porthos laughed. "D'you wanna play cards or something?"

"Yeah, alright."

They played for several hours -- Porthos cheated his way to a win more often than not even with his sling, but d'Artagnan pulled a few games in his favor. It wasn't until their stomachs started to grumble that they stopped playing and set the cards down. d'Artangan made Porthos promise to stay where he was while he went to retrieve food for the both of them. He returned with roast chicken, bread and cheese and shoved it in Porthos's direction before sitting back down, this time next to his larger friend.

"Eat or Aramis'll probably kill me."

Porthos laughed, shaking his head but dutifully eating his fair share of the food. His wounds were starting to hurt more, a deep ache that was settling in his bones the longer he was upright. He winced with every small movement he made as he ate, quietly wishing that the remaining two of their group would return soon. Only then would he be able to properly relax.

"D'you think they'll be back soon?" d'Artagnan asked, holding a piece of chicken most of the way into his mouth. Porthos shrugged, and immediately regretted the movement. He winced audibly and d'Artagnan quickly put the chicken down in favor of carefully placing his hands on Porthos. "You alright?"

"Hurt," Porthos growled, face scrunched up tight.

"What can I do?" d'Artagnan asked, his voice only slightly panicky. He ran his hands over Porthos's shoulders -- he wasn't a nursemaid -- he didn't know what to do.

"Wanna lay down," Porthos whimpered. He was bent over double on the bench, clutching his arm against his chest. It felt like the longer he continued to be where he was, the more it hurt.

"Alright, c'mon," d'Artagnan murmured, getting up from the bench and reaching down for Porthos's hand on his unbroken arm. After some careful arranging and some intricate slow movements, they managed to get the big man into his room at the garrison. d'Artagnan set him on the bed and went to move but Porthos's hand snapped out and pulled him back.

"Don't go," Porthos said, his face still crunched. d'Artagnan nodded and sat down next to Porthos on the bed. He adjusted himself until he was fully on the bed, legs out in front of him. Porthos let out a relieved breath once he was settled. "Thanks."

d'Artagnan didn't answer, but patted Porthos softly on the unbroken arm.

When Aramis and Athos returned two hours later, they found them leaning on one another, quite asleep.

  
  
  
  
2.

There was something going around the garrison. A cold or a flu of some sort was making its way through the ranks of the musketeers and the infamous inseparables were not without their casualties.

d'Artagnan was sniffling into his sleeve, nose bright red and running furiously. Aramis quietly stared at absolutely nothing, pausing in his mysterious contemplations only to hack up disgusting things and spit them into a handkerchief. Between the two of them, they were a miserable, nauseating duo.

They'd holed up in d'Artagnan's rooms simply because he was closest to the garrison. Not to mention it seemed silly to keep them apart when they were both suffering of the same affliction. This way they would be easier to take care of and more importantly, easier to keep an eye on.

Athos had backed out of the room at first glance, mumbling under his breath about needing to be elsewhere. Porthos had sighed after he left -- he would remain behind and take over what could only be described as nurse duty. Athos didn't have the temperament for it, anyway.

Porthos forced warm broth down d'Artagnan's throat, stopping only to hand him a clean handkerchief when his nose began to drip. He gave Aramis water with the instructions to drink, carefully watching him so he didn't choke on it.

When Aramis whined of headache, he closed the shutters to keep out the light. When d'Artagnan complained about the chill in the air, he piled on the blankets. When Aramis complained about the heat, Porthos removed the blankets and opened the shutters. They were an endless stream of complaints, the two of them.

"M'head hurts, Porthos," Aramis whined from the corner of the bed. His eyes were screwed shut, and a hand was pressed to his forehead. He coughed rather dramatically into his elbow. d'Artagnan turned his head away and whimpered slightly.

"I know, Aramis. You told me six times. d’Artagnan told me eight. You were hot so I opened the shutters again. D'you want me to close 'em?" Porthos answered from the foot of the bed, where he was carefully folding the blankets.

"No, then it's too hot."

"Well, we're out of options, then."

There was a pause before Aramis asked, "Rub my head?"

Porthos sighed. "Alright, scoot over, the both of you."

They adjusted themselves accordingly, making a space between them for Porthos to climb up the bed and lay next to them. He manhandled Aramis so he was sitting between his legs and dutifully raised his hands to Aramis's hair and began rubbing his head. Aramis sighed happily, leaning back against Porthos's broad chest as if it were the most comfortable place in the world.

d'Artagnan took advantage of Porthos's captive state and moved closer, leaning against him and attempting to burrow his face into the warmth of his shoulder. He smacked his lips, closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

Porthos rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, but kept massaging Aramis's head, at least until he felt the steady rise and fall of the back against him. He paused in his motions, and listened. A quiet but rather obnoxious snore was coming from the body on his chest.

Of course, they would fall asleep on him. Of course. Porthos resigned himself to a boring few hours -- there was no way he'd be moving and risk waking them up. Not when he'd been trying to get them to sleep all afternoon.

The door to the room opened with a horrendous squeak and Porthos flapped his hands at whoever was behind it. Athos stared at him, and held up a basket.

"I brought things," he whispered, moving into the room just enough to place the basket on the table.

Porthos mouthed, "Thank you," and sneezed.

Athos stared at him in horror and backed out of the room.

  
  
  
  
1.

They'd been watching him carefully, but in what they hoped was a discreet way. Athos carried his emotions deeply and privately, but they knew that he felt. They didn't know the full story behind Milady and his relationship, and they weren't sure that they ever would, but they knew that Athos had felt something for her, once upon a time. It hadn't been a light, easy decision he'd made in that street.

Aramis was honestly waiting for some sort of break down in Athos's normally solid demeanor -- a crack in that rock solid stoicism of his.

Porthos was waiting for a sign that Athos needed them closer than normal.

d'Artagnan wasn't around -- he had his own problems that needed dealing with. They felt no ill will against him -- if he needed them, he would return of his own accord. They were much more worried about their unofficial leader.

They were drinking together in their usual pub, sitting in the back with their backs to the wall, watching the exits. It was an accidental habit they'd formed, one they adhered to whether or not they were on duty. Athos was deep into his cups, Aramis was attempting to match him, but Porthos was only half-pretending to drink.

If anything, he needed to be mostly sober so he could carry the man home.

"I loved her."

The words were half-slurred and mostly whispered, but both Aramis and Porthos had heard them. They froze in their movements, turning slowly to stare at Athos.

"I loved her and she...she..." Athos started again, finishing with a low, quiet wail. He slumped forward, leaning on the table in front of him. His fingers curled around his cup as he slid his arm forward on the rough surface.

"Shh, Athos," Aramis whispered, reaching across the space between them and patting Athos on the arm. He wasn't trying to keep him from talking. He was doing his best to let Athos know that he didn't have to tell them, if he didn't want to.

Athos's bright blue eyes fixed upon Aramis's face for a moment before he closed them, and shook his head.

"Leave 'em alone, Aramis," Porthos murmured, reaching over and plucking the cup out of Athos's hand. He set it on the opposite side of the table. "I think you've had enough for tonight." He glanced at Aramis before stealing his cup away, too. "Both of you."

Aramis frowned at him, reaching for the bottle to take a drink directly from it. Porthos cut that idea short by taking the bottle and moving it closer to himself.

"We need to get him home," Porthos said, nodding towards Athos, who was running his fingers along the grain of the wood of the table.

Aramis grumbled something inaudible before climbing to his feet. Porthos followed, much more steadily.

"C'mon, Athos. Up you get," Porthos said, slipping his hands under Athos's arms and hauling him up to his feet. He stood by himself for a moment before slumping dangerously to one side. Porthos caught him and nodded to Aramis, who took hold of one of Athos's arms and draped it over his shoulders.

They made their way to Athos's rooms slowly but steadily. They stopped for him to puke in the street more than once, but didn't say anything. Once they were in his room, Aramis made to take Athos's arm off his shoulder, but paused.

"I don't believe it," He said, mouth slightly agape.

"What?"

"He's asleep. The bastard fell asleep on us," Aramis answered, disbelieving. Who could fall asleep while strung between two people who were carrying you home?

"Now what?" Porthos asked, voice shaking slightly with laughter. He couldn't help it -- it was funny. He was trying to be quiet, though. Sort of.

"Now... we put him in bed and hope he doesn't wake up," Aramis said, sounding more sure of his words than he actually felt. He moved towards the bed and Porthos followed and carefully helping Aramis arrange Athos on top of it.

They stared down at their unconscious friend, side by side.

"Should we...go?" Porthos asked, unsure of how he felt about that. Aramis opened his mouth to answer, but another voice got there before him.

"No," Athos said, from below them. They both stared at him. "Stay," He added, reaching one slack arm out to pat the bed next to him.

"Um," Aramis said, raising his eyebrows.

"Just do it," Porthos said, climbing over Athos and laying down next to him, after removing his muddy boots. Aramis looked unsure, but took his own boots off and laid down next to Athos on his other side.

It was a tight fit on a small bed, but it didn't take long for Athos to cling to them both, and then fall asleep again, his head on Porthos's shoulder.

"S'there something about my shoulder that just says "pillow" to all of you?" He asked quietly, staring across the bed at Aramis.

The other man laughed, shrugged and then said, "You have the shoulders for it."

They stayed through the night, falling asleep against one another in a pile. When they woke in the morning, Athos whispered a quiet thank you to them both, fixing them with his own version of a grateful look.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [ tumblr](http://drclairefraser.tumblr.com).


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